Goodbyes and Things
by nacarat-nat
Summary: Rhaena Amell is ready to leave the comfort of her life in Denerim to take up the mantle of Grey Warden Commander in Amaranthine. As she considers things past, she accepts that goodbyes were always going to be difficult. Especially so with these two. Alistair/Amell/Zevran


**_So, here's the first one-shot that I promised while I take a hiatus from writing Tabula Rasa. It still features Rhaena Amell as my warden, though this is post DA and pre Awakening so the details in this may or may not be used in TR. Check out Tabula Rasa and my Carver Hawke centric one-shot (Professional Younger Brother) if you haven't already. Enjoy, and leave a review before you go! _  
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**_Reviews are a writers mana :) _**

**_-Nat._**

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**Goodbyes and Things**

"Rhaena—"

"_Alistair._"

Ferelden's king of one year stood in his study and stared down his nose at the short mage before him, arms crossed, his expression a peculiar amalgamation of frustration and melancholy. Her stance matched his only in form, in that her arms were crossed and she too, was staring intently at the person opposite her. There were differences; she was more relaxed, slouched against his desk, a palm resting lightly on Spellweaver's rune-enchanted pommel, wearing that stupid, maddening smirk that defied convention and somehow managed to come off as understanding.

"When did '_Alistair'_ become a legitimate argument?" He relaxes, however slightly, to raise an eyebrow.

"Since 'Rhaena' became capable of starting one."

An eyebrow of her own goes up in reply, challenging, disappearing under the bangs of her short black hair. 'Short', wasn't a style that was very popular at court; many women liked to do up their long locks in complicated braids and curls now, made all the more fancy with gemmed pins and circlets worked into the tresses. Leliana gleefully welcomed it as the revival of Orlesian fashion in Ferelden. Rhaena called it three hours of torture with the handmaidens. Besides, Rhaena liked her short mess of hair. It was more practical than the braid she wore in the Circle and for the majority of their travels across Ferelden, and she thought it was rather fetching, especially since it had evolved from the literally rough-hewn locks of yesteryear to a more sophisticated… _what did Leliana call it? _

_Ah yes. A pixie cut_.

_A pixie cut that the King's Chancellor wears rather well, if I could say so myself. _

"Very funny, Rhaena," Alistair shakes his head in mock anguish. "You know, sometimes I pray to the Maker that you stayed the quiet little Tower mouse that Duncan brought to Ostagar forever."

"Fibs and falsehoods," she waves away airily. _"_Tower mouse? Maybe. Little? Most definitely. Quiet? I beg to differ, your High—"

"_Rhaena_," he starts again, recognising the pattern they'd fallen into. The Amell girl had gotten unfortunately adept at waylaying conversations when she wanted to since they'd met, a talent he credits on her natural wit and… prolonged exposure to Zevran. Though, in a toss up between the Antivan's influence and nature, Alistair wouldn't give Mother Nature too many brownie points.

With the court, Rhaena's razor wit was Maker sent.

With him? Not such a blessing.

"You could always… stay," he tries, even though he knows this really wasn't an option, and her leaving really was a _good _idea. Eamon called it 'infallible'.

Ferelden hasn't had 'infallible' for a long time.

She gives him that smile again, that illogical, sympathetic half-smirk. "And let all the Orlesians prance around Amaranthine unchecked, after all that Empress Celene has put you through in the past year? _Never._"

And she says it with such severity that he has to laugh. "_Us. _What Celene has put_ us _though, Lady Chancellor," he smirks, before the frown returns in all its anxious glory.

"_Stay,_" he pleads again, a gauntleted hand reaching for hers. Once upon a time Rhaena would have flushed at his touch, cheeks reddening with the attention that he showed her. But this wasn't once upon a time. And romance wasn't what he was trying to convey.

There was affection in his gesture, yes. But it was not the awkward tip-toeing of a newfound infatuation, nor was it the whirlwind passion that once was. It was trust. It was love without the uncertainty that inevitably tagged along for the agonizing boat ride. It was a summary of their friendship, if what they were could truly be trivialized as such. It was a romance that bloomed bright in the harshest of winters and then…never properly wilted.

And that's why she had to leave.

Rhaena allows herself to lean her forehead on his breastplate, deeming the shiny silverite a reasonable enough distance between them. "I can't, Alistair. You know that. The new Wardens we– _I_ conscript are going to need me…"

"And?"

She sighs, pulling her hand away from his gently. "_And, _this," she gestures, waving her hands back and forth between them, "can't go on forever."

Alistair's frown deepens, mild confusion flitting across his expression, and asks "This?" even with full knowledge of what 'this' is.

Rhaena sighs again, exasperated. "THIS. The awkward dance that we do, that we've been doing for the past _year. _Me with the…" she maneuvers away from the _weird ache in my chest _with more waving of her hands because that is not the point she's trying to make. "And you… Alistair, sooner or later, Eamon is going to run out of girls to throw at you. You can't say 'no' forever."

"I can try."

Her heart swells at his proclamation, and Rhaena struggles to keep the traitorous smile at bay. It's selfish, she knows, for her to take pleasure from the knowledge that, if she desired it, she will always have this childishly stubborn Alistair to herself. That same, almost naively loyal ex-Knight Templar she had met on a sunny day in Ostagar.

But she knows that her chance had gone. She relinquished whatever claim she had on him when she effectively forced the Crown onto his sandy haired head.

So she keeps her face neutral and goes back to lean against the desk.

"Idiot," she chides, with barely any malice. "Ferelden needs a queen. _You _need a queen."

"Sending you a days ride away isn't going to help."

Rhaena shrugs. "It's a start."

He moves to lean next to her on the desk. Rhaena has all of a minute to wonder how long the flimsy desk will withstand their combined weight and the massive bulk of Alistair's ceremonial armour, before she has to roll her eyes and insist to Eamon later that _absolutely nothing happened, _when Alistair's hand is on hers again.

Rhaena starts to quip about the 'inappropriate proximity', as the Arl likes to put it, before she notices that Alistair isn't looking at her, his head hung in resignation.

"Alistair?"

"I… I just don't like the idea of you going off and having another crazy adventure without me, I guess," he smiles weakly.

She chuckles. "I doubt it'll be any crazier than the first. As Arlessa all I'll probably be doing is managing… taxes," she feigns a shudder, trying to inject some levity into the heavy air.

It elicits a grin from him, but it falls away as quickly as it appeared. "What am I going to do about the position of Chancellor then?"

"There's always Bann Teagan," she suggests genuinely. "I trust him."

And she does. Bann Teagan has been instrumental to everything they've achieved over the past year: the improved status of the Wardens in Ferelden, the new Treaty discussions with Orlais. He was even patient enough to listen to (and debate) some of Rhaena's more ambitious ideas regarding the Circle of Magi, even though he probably knew as well as any one else that actually putting any of her plans into motion would be borderline sacrilege.

Rhaena likes Teagan. Eamon on the other hand, she does not. The man was difficult to read, his motivations questionable. There was no doubt he worked for the benefit of the realm, but there was also no question that he made sure, ever so discreetly, that he worked towards his own benefit as well. Be it a slight improvement of his place in court, or riding Ferelden of a regent that would have stripped him of title and land, Eamon was always quick to guide the tides in his favour.

Sometimes at the expense of others.

_And there's that heartache again, right on cue._

Alistair is deep in thought next to her, a hand resting on his lightly stubbled chin. "Teagan would make a good replacement… " he admits hesitantly.

"See?" She smiles, flashing him a row of white teeth. "Problem solved. Now you have a Warden Commander and a Chancellor."

The King sighed, exhaling equal parts frustration and sadness.

"When do you leave?"

Rhaena frowns and tries to recall what Arl Eamon had said earlier. "In two days, at dawn. A runner has already been dispatched to Vigil's Keep to inform them of our arrival."

Alistair doesn't remember this detail. "Our?"

"A potential recruit has been asked to accompany to the Vigil," Rhaena responds, suddenly all business, fingers massaging her temple lightly. "Mhairi, if I remember correctly. Previously a knight for the King's army."

"As happy as I am that you aren't travelling alone, I'm uh, _concerned _that your only back up is this… recruit," Alistair purses his lips, honey eyes crinkled in concern.

Rhaena pushes herself off the desk with a laugh. Pushing up the sleeves of the dark burgundy robes that had become her favourite the minute Leliana had gifted them to her, she rounded on the Alistair, still chuckling.

"I was a recruit not so very long ago, if you recall. _And _the only back up you had at the time!"

He laughs and stands to tower over her. "Yes, and a wonderful sidekick you made, jittery ball of nerves that you were."

"Oi! I helped save this country, you oaf," she yells, and shoves him lightly in the chest. Inertia dictates that they end up standing closer to each other than they were before, and cobalt eyes are inadvertently drawn to the light honey pair gazing at her. The levity dies, and melancholy creeps back into the room, a heavy fog to blanket the two Wardens.

"I'll miss you," he whispers.

Rhaena smiles, a small sad smile, and lets herself be drawn into his embrace. She props her forearms on his breastplate, and rests her head in the little nook between her thumbs.

"I'll miss you too, Alistair."

* * *

"Hello, my old friend."

Changed into her tunic and leather breeches, the mage freed the faithful canvas pack from the deep, light-deprived recesses of her closet. A few dark bloodstains she never managed to get rid of are immediately obvious against the light sand colour of the fabric. A brief montage of their wondrous trudge across Ferelden flitted through her mind as she ran her fingers over the blemishes, the beginnings of a grin spreading across her face.

Sitting on her bed, Rhaena considered the room that had become her home for the past year. Ivory hued curtains were drawn over the large windows, barely hindering the evening sun from casting a golden glow on her wine coloured sheets. Her staff stood propped up against her wardrobe. Books lined the wall facing her bed; those she held close to her heart nestled in and around the monstrous texts that the position of Chancellor demanded a young mage study.

There was Wynne's very own copy of The Four Schools of Magic, the margins of pages on Creation spells completely covered with the Senior Enchanter's notes in her looping script. Next to it was a tiny book, only slightly bigger than the length of her hand, the leather binding a little worn at the sides. Zevran had given it to her on her nineteenth name-day, one miserable winter night spent miles below ground in the oppressive dark of the Deep Roads. He called it Antiva's finest poetry. All she'd admit at the time, after reading the first piece that Zevran translated and her cheeks flushing a deep shade of maroon, was that it was 'certainly stimulating'.

Rhaena chuckled at the memory, flipping through the yellowing pages, pausing as she found that short passage that Zevran had neatly translated into the common tongue.

_The symphony I see in thee,_

_It whispers songs to me,_

_Songs of hot breath upon my neck,_

_Songs of soft sighs by my head,_

_Songs of nails upon my back,_

_Songs of thee come to my bed._

She grins as she tucks the blue ribbon back between the pages and shut the book, relieved that in the hurricane that was the past year, and that in the potential storm that is Amaranthine, that book is still, and forever will be, utterly full of shit.

The books are placed next to each other on the bed, Leliana's burgundy robes folded next to them.

Rhaena retrieves the dragon scale armour that Wade had crafted for her from it's stand next, and lays the breastplate, greaves and bracers on her bed. The dark, blood coloured armour had been so thoroughly battered in that last desperate battle in Denerim that the breastplate almost crushed her abdomen and Wynne had to pry splintered bits of scale out of Rhaena's flesh before she could treat her wounds.

But they had returned to the blacksmith, and Master Wade had come through for them once again. Even Herren couldn't turn down the Hero of Ferelden, no matter how much he may have wanted to. The ruined scales were hammered back into place, and by some sorcery known only to that blacksmith, her armour was returned her lighter and more resilient than before. _Wade had made other changes as well_, Rhaena thought, tracing a thumb over the two sliver rearing griffins engraved into her neck guard.

Griffins.

The mage ran a thumb across Warden's Oath; the silver pendant a reminder of her brothers that did not survive the Joining.

_Daveth and Jory, _Rhaena repeated, as she always did everyday since Alistair's coronation. She knew it was probably a slightly foolish thing to do, but she also knew the only reason she was standing here, in a luxurious room in the King's Court in Denerim and not buried two feet below Ostagar's cage-like domes beside them, was luck.

And someone should remember the ones that fate does not.

A small, modest sandalwood box sits propped up against a ceramic vase. It used to house a bright crimson rose, kept fresh as they travelled and fought with some creative application of Healing magic on Rhaena's part.

All that stands to be discovered in its wooden orifice now was some potpourri.

But that silly rose that a silly boy had plucked from behind a Chantry for silly reasons had meant the world to her once upon a time.

That silly boy had meant the world to her.

_Means_ the world to her.

Regret gnawed at her heart for the briefest of moments before there is a harsh knock on her door.

Carefully placing the box on top of the pile of belongings on her bed, Rhaena reached for the door even as it swung open, revealing the constantly smirking Zevran Arainai. But she knows how to read him better now, and there is thunder in his handsome face.

"Leaving without saying goodbye, my dear?"

Rhaena flinched at the degree of hurt in his voice, and lowers her gaze to glance at the buttons on his black tunic. "Eamon?"

"Alistair."

"Damn it."

The elf strode past her to stand in the middle of the room with his back towards her, arms crossed.

"This is how it begins isn't it? Always the same with you women."

"Zev," Rhaena interrupted, impatiently pushing up the sleeves of her dark blue tunic.

"First you keep secrets, then you promise to write—"

"_Zev_," she tried again.

"—but you never do, then I don't know who you are anymore and—"

"ZEV!" She cried, spinning him to face her. "You idiot, I wasn't going to go without… why are you smiling?"

Grinning, the Crow stood on tiptoe slightly to plant a swift kiss on the flustered mage's forehead. "Ah, my little raven, ever so predictable."

_Raven. _How she had hated that nickname. And how she had hated Zevran; sickening, despicable, lecherous Antivan that he was.

But Zevran was also other things: humorous, caring. Loyal. How many nights had she spent, having snuck away from Alistair's snoring form, with her Crow by the campfire because she knew he would listen? Because she knew that he understood the uncertainty, the hurt. Rhaena loved Alistair, but there were some things she did not want him to hear, for fear of his reaction.

So she went to Zevran. Rhaena would tell him her secrets, her fears, memories of a harsh childhood in the Circle that would not leave her tainted dreams. She'd tell him about her friends, those already beyond the Fade, and one other that had left, only to be dragged back in and repeatedly beaten to the point of death. She'd tell him about that one Templar that had kept glancing back at her in the library, whose mind had been mangled and mutilated with a cruel replica of her voice.

And he would listen patiently, never judging, never interrupting. Zev never even asked questions. He'd listen respectfully until she was spent, and then he'd swap her story for one of his own. The elf would regale her with a number of raunchy rendezvouses, narrow escapes, and his many intrepid travels under Crow contracts.

He told her about Rina.

He held her as she wept the night she sent Alistair to Morrigan's bed, keeping her from taking Oghren's advice and drinking herself into oblivion.

It was under the stars of Thedas that the mage's ire for the rogue began to fade, and with it, the ire for the nickname that he had christened her with. It was appropriate for them, he said, a crow and a raven: birds of a feather and all that.

So he said before he kissed her.

Looking at his smug face now, Rhaena briefly wondered how different it would have been for her had she not slapped him that night. How different would it have been had she accepted the earring instead of the rose?

Zevran grinned. "Don't look so angry, mi amor! Look, I've even brought you a parting gift."

Unbuckling the ornate sheath from his belt, he held the dark leather casing in one hand, and gripped the hilt of the dagger with another, presenting it to her with an air of ceremony.

Rhaena raised an eyebrow at him before raking a hand through her cropped black hair. "A dagger?"

"Like I always say, a dagger in the hand—"

"—Is better than a dagger in the back," Rhaena finished, smiling before unsheathing the blade. It was not very elaborate; the dagger was shaped exactly like the curved Crow daggers Zevran carried with one exception - the bright silverite had a strange white luminescence to the blade. Flipping it around, Rhaena immediately spotted the old Tevinter symbol for the Fade carved into the rune at the base of the hilt.

"A Cold Iron rune. I had it enchanted for you in the Wonders of Thedas," Zevran explained before sighing. "I still think a shop with a name like that has no excuse _not _to be a brothel."

"I'm not fantastic with daggers… but thank you, Zev, it'll remind me of you at the very least," Rhaena sheathed it and moved to give the blond elf a hug, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Hopefully it will keep you safe as well, little raven," he says into her ear. "I should go," Zevran pulled away from her embrace slowly. "We both have some packing to do I imagine."

"_We_? Where are you going?"

He responded with a smile, grinning with equal parts sadness and anticipation. "I'm going to start travelling again, Rhaena. Go across the Waking Sea to Kirkwall, or Starkhaven maybe…"

"You're leaving?" Rhaena asked incredulously. Tears begin to sting her eyes; a day's ride away was nothing, she'd still have come to Denerim to see them every Feastday or during Alistair's name-day ball or…

_Zevran could continue being her spymaster in Amaranthine…_

_Alistair might need him._

_Kirkwall or Starkhaven isn't a day's ride away. _

Keeping a straight face she cleared her throat. "This is how it begins isn't it? Always the same with you elves."

He smiles at her before turning away, something on the bed having caught his attention, his expression brightening considerably.

"I remember that book," he says quietly.

"Zev," she pushed gently.

The elf shrugged. "I stayed in Denerim for you, mi amor. Now that you're leaving, I should too. I've given the Crows too long to catch up with me already."

Shoulders slumped in resignation; Rhaena wraps her arms around herself as she mumbles, "Take care of yourself, Zev."

"You too, Rhaena. I promise I'll write," he finishes with a smile.

"You'd better. Or it won't just be the Crows coming after you."

**XXX**


End file.
